As she ventured into the garden, the chilly darkness pounced on her like a cat; its dense, clotted fur cold against her face. She detested cats – murderers, the lot of them. There was no sign yet of daylight, though a plump half-moon hung above the conifers; a ripe chunk of Edam, Robin’s favourite cheese.
She stepped on to the lawn, the frosted grass crunching slightly under her bedroom slippers, and her spirits lifting, as always, when she heard the birds singing through the darkness. Their life was so precarious, faced with hunger, cold – and cats – yet every morning they were up before dawn, pouring forth that symphony of sound: twitterings and chirpings, throaty coo-coo-cooings, triumphant caws and squawks.
As she stood listening in the shadows, the sky slowly began to lighten; its deep indigo blue paling to a mysterious slatey-grey. The moon was fading, too, as if an invisible hand were slowly rubbing it out. And the yellows in the garden started shining through the gloom: daffodils, forsythia, bright stars of winter jasmine. Moving very quietly, so as not to frighten any living thing, she unscrewed the jar of seed and poured some onto the bird-table. She knew who’d be the first. Like his namesake, the robin was an early riser.
As yet, though, no birds at all were visible and, as far as human beings were concerned, she appeared to be the only one awake. The houses on either side were plunged in total darkness, and the bungalow at the back had only its porch-light shining. But she liked that sense of a fresh, new-minted morning rising from the shroud of night just for her alone. And certainly night was losing ground; the slate-grey sky now pearling into silvery-white, like the inside of an oyster shell. And colours other than yellow were coming into focus: the exotic, waxy pink of the magnolia, the scarlet shout of camellias.
Suddenly she tensed. There he was, on the bird-table, head jauntily cocked as he surveyed the pile of seed, then sharp beak jab-jab-jabbing as he began to peck it up. She smiled in recognition. Size apart, they were so alike: both avid for their food (and consequently both plump around the midriff); both with dark, bright eyes; both friendly, cheery souls, eager and alert. The day she’d first met Robin, over sixty years ago, he had been wearing a red sweater, which immediately attracted her amidst the dirge of drab grey suits. The red had set off his dark hair and seemed to promise passion – a promise duly kept. And the bird’s own cheerful splash of red had somehow kept her going throughout the recent winter: the first winter on her own. Indeed, there were robins indoors, too. Any Christmas card that featured the birds she refused to throw away, but had kept strung above the mantelpiece for the last three months and more. Some of the cards she could hardly bear to read: those from odd acquaintances who hadn’t known about the death and had simply written automatically, ‘To Robin and Joanna …’
Jab and gulp, jab and gulp. The bird ate with Robin’s famished concentration, and with the same immoderate interest. Her husband had rarely missed a meal in all their years of marriage, and usually seated himself at the table long before the pie had browned or the carrots been dished up. And he invariably asked for seconds and, even then, would scrape out all the serving dishes, as if loath to leave a single morsel. It had been a sort of tribute, a homage to her role as provider – now repeated by the bird, which had already reduced the pile of seed to the merest scattering. There was little left for the wood pigeon that lumbered heavily down, with a slightly drunken demeanour, as if suffering from a hangover. Robin had always referred to wood pigeons as ‘Arthurs’ – why, she couldn’t tell – but she regarded this particular Arthur with a certain indignation, since it had frightened off her favourite little bird.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she whispered as it sought refuge in the shrubbery. ‘I’ll be back later with your lunch, and then with tea, of course.’
On 22 March she got up even earlier, needing extra time to make herself look presentable. She couldn’t slop around in her nightie all day on her wedding anniversary. When she finally slipped out into the garden, she was wearing Robin’s favourite dress: the greeny-blue shantung, with his camel-coloured car coat buttoned snugly over it. The sky was scattered with stars, as if he had bought her diamonds and flung them down in handfuls from on high. She stretched up to try to touch one, wishing she had his height. He had always been the one who got things down from the top cupboards in the bedroom, or from the highest kitchen shelf. Now anything she couldn’t reach she had to do without.
As well as the diamonds, he had laid on a full orchestra; every bird singing its small heart out, to celebrate their fifty-eighth. And she could hear the robin’s confident voice amidst all the other chirrupings – that clear, melodious, jubilant sound, challenging the darkness to disperse. Obediently, a few white cloudlets began massing in the east, pale against the inky sky, and the dense murk in the garden gradually thinned to gauzy mist. As she moved away from the shelter of the fence, the robin appeared, as if from nowhere, a blurred shape in the gloom. He normally stayed hidden in the shrubbery till ten to six at the earliest. Yet here he was, alighting on the table at only half past five. But then Robin, too, would always get up earlier on the day of their anniversary, to bring her breakfast in bed, putting a red rose on the breakfast tray and an exciting little package. And she, in turn, had a present for the robin: a box of writhing mealworms.
‘Happy anniversary,’ she murmured, tipping three worms on to the table and watching as they were gobbled in delight. Mealworms for a robin were the equivalent of Dundee cake for her husband – the food loved best of all. And between each luscious mouthful, the bird cocked its head and gazed at her in gratitude, as Robin had so often done.
Intent as she was on the spectacle, she almost failed to notice the activity on the lawn. Two blackbirds were scouting for breakfast and a posse of hopeful pigeons strutting self-importantly. She had brought food for them, as well, wanting everyone to feast today. Breaking the bread into pieces, she threw the scraps on to the grass, and was immediately rewarded with a flurry of wings and beaks. There seemed to be far more birds than usual, even a couple of jays on the bird-table, which was definitely unprecedented. Such shy, retiring creatures rarely ventured so close to the house, let alone when people were around. In fact, she had never seen a jay at such close range, and stood admiring the pinkish-brown plumage, with its contrasting patch of electric-blue, gleaming iridescent on the wings. Could this be Robin’s doing – her husband laying on more anniversary treats?
She suddenly knew that, lonely or no, the day could and would be happy. Warm spring weather was forecast, so she could take herself out to the park, maybe even buy an ice. If Robin was watching over her, then she owed it to him to rejoice.
A week later, she was totally confused. She had put the clocks back, in error, then, hearing the time on the radio, realized it was quarter to six, not quarter to four, as she’d thought. Every year, in late October and late March, she had trouble working out whether the clocks went forward or back. It was Robin who had put her right – along with the clocks and watches – and without him she was lost.
Disoriented, she hurried into the garden, where the sky was still funereal-dark; the natural world following its normal pattern, regardless of British Summertime. At least the robin hadn’t missed his breakfast – in fact, there was no sign of him at all – but she quickly tipped his seed onto the table, along with a couple of mealworms.
Despite so-called official summer, a spiteful wind was blowing, and seemed to pierce right through to her naked flesh, as if a nightdress and a cardigan and even Robin’s anorak were trivial defences, easily assailed. The last few days had been so bright and sunny, this unexpected cold was like a brutal tyrant displacing a kindly altruist. Shivering, she looked up at the sky, which, instead of paling to its usual slatey-grey, had become a threatening reddish colour, as if reflecting fire, or war. Even the birds seemed cowed. The deep melancholy cawing of the crows drowned out all other sounds.
There was a sudden rush of wings – three pigeons flapping down, closely followed by an ‘Arthur’, a portly fe
llow, with its feathers all fluffed up against the cold. She prayed the robin would be next, but a magpie came instead, its black and white livery so shiny-smart and dapper it could have been a waiter at the Ritz. The crows had stopped their cawing now, so she strained her ears to listen for the robin. But all she could make out was the faint, insistent drumming of a woodpecker in next-door’s blighted beech, and the croaking cough of a jay.
Increasingly anxious, she went to fetch some mealworms. The robin would no more ignore his favourite food than her husband would turn his back on a fresh-baked Dundee cake. Laying the worms on the table, she stepped back into the shadows, so as not to scare him off, keeping a constant lookout all the while. Two tits swooped down, pouncing on the treasure, then a chaffinch braved the table, in search of the remaining seed. Still no robin, though. He had appeared every single morning since the day of Robin’s death – indeed sent by him, she believed, to help her through those empty, aching months.
She stamped her feet to try to warm them up. The flimsy, unlined slippers afforded no protection from the cold. Her eyes were watering in the wind, and her fingers almost numb, yet she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. If she waited long enough, the robin would arrive.
Prising the lid off the plastic box, she tipped the last of the mealworms on to the table, but it was a squirrel that arrived to claim the booty. ‘How dare you!’ she reproved, as it began tucking in with relish. ‘That’s Robin’s food, not yours.’ But the creature simply ignored her, eating with jerky, darting movements, as he watched constantly for predators. The cat, she thought with horror – that sleek, black, sly assassin who slunk into the garden without a by-your-leave, trampled down her daffodils, did its smelly business in the middle of the flowerbed, scrabbling up the earth with no concern for the poor plants. Had it killed her robin, on top of all its other crimes, left nothing but a pathetic pile of feathers? Those angry streaks of red, still daubed across the sky, now seemed like bloody paw-prints.
Miserably she crouched down by the fence, but her knees objected to the unnatural, painful posture and immediately gave way. She sank on to the ground, hardly caring if she rotted where she was. Without her robin, there was no point going on; nothing to look after, nothing to get up for, nothing to give meaning to her day. Perhaps he’d gone to a new territory to try to find a mate. It was strange he hadn’t paired up several weeks ago (along with most of the other birds, who’d been busy wooing and courting), but she had seen it as a mark of his devotion, refusing to share her with a stranger.
Now, though, all was changed. Even the dawn chorus seemed less a celebration than a mockery – the jeering laugh of the woodpecker ringing out in contempt. Her joints were complaining bitterly as she lay slumped on the cold earth, yet she couldn’t face returning to the empty, silent house. If only she were a bedding plant: a petunia or zinnia, which, after a few months’ flowering, would be consigned to the compost heap. As a human being, she might soldier on for years yet, like all those clacking widows at the Day Centre; widows with no purpose in their life.
Suddenly a plane roared overhead, and, as if it were an alarm clock, summoning her from bed, she somehow found the strength to struggle to her feet, clinging to the fence-posts for support. As she straightened up, she gazed, startled, at the sky. The plane had left a vapour-trail so frothy-white and billowing, it reminded her of a wedding veil. And the blood-red streaks had vanished, replaced now by an expanse of blue, with glints of gold and benign white fluffy clouds. The whole garden seemed transformed, all the colours brighter, as if they’d been enamelled, and the golden trumpets of the daffodils blazing a proud fanfare, as they had done on her wedding day. That perfect day was printed on her memory, like a film she could rewind at will, whenever she felt low. Yes, there she was again, walking proudly up the aisle, supported on her father’s arm; the swoony scent of lilies perfuming the church, and arrow-shafts of excitement pricking at her skin as she glided towards her husband-to-be.
Then all at once she realized, with a jolt of mingled shock and joy, that Robin was actually waiting for her still. All she had to do was float towards him along that shining vapour-path which led from earth to heaven. But did she have the courage? It would require a terrifying leap to reach the path at all – a leap of faith in her present ailing state. And she would have to do it quickly, before the trail dissolved.
Closing her eyes, she sprang recklessly, and desperately, towards the vapour-path, hearing only the wild pounding of her heart. She lost her footing and began plunging back to earth, a mere clod of pain and panic. But, even as she fell, some kindly power seemed to snatch her from the unfathomable depths and bear her up again, sustaining and supporting her until she was safely on the path. Dazed, she looked around. Everything was shimmering, tremulous, ethereal, as if made of gossamer. The foamy path beneath her feet felt pillowy and soft, and the air from this high vantage point was purer altogether, easier to breathe, Buoyed by hope, she ventured step by groping step along the gauzy track, climbing even higher until she was above the hills, above the clouds, advancing ever onwards to her mate. All earthly noise was dwindling and, in the expectant hush, she could gradually make out the faint rustle of her wedding dress and the soft swishing of her silken train. She was young again, a bride again, her whole weight of years erased, and all pain and anguish fading to the merest, thinnest mist. The vapour-trail, in contrast, was still distinct, still curving high beyond her, pointing out the way. All she had to do was follow its bright arc, guiding her to the realm of Eternal Summer.
And, as she took her final step, the majestic organ started pealing out the wedding march as Robin swooped triumphantly to claim her.
Sugar Plum
‘Can I help you, dear?’
‘No, just looking, thanks.’ Not exactly true. She was, in fact, desperate to find something to wear for tonight, but the process would hardly be helped by some old biddy fussing around. The advantage of this shop was that the two ancient sisters who ran it usually left you to browse in peace, rather than hovering or pouncing the minute you took a hanger off the rail. Fortunately, the wrinklie shuffled off, vanishing into the storeroom at the back.
Karen riffled through the rail again, finally lighting on a leopard-print top, which she held up against her body to study the effect in the mirror. ‘Tarty,’ her mother snorted, but her mother was in Jedburgh, 500 miles away and, in any case, ‘tarty’ was precisely what she wanted. Anthony liked her to look vampish, as he called it. A wave of fear flurried through her gut. If only he wasn’t married, or so old. It made it really awkward when he started discussing things that had happened before she was born. Yet boys her own age now all seemed immature – though admittedly less intimidating.
She squinted at the price-tag on the garment: £4.99 – which she could just about afford. It would have cost double in the Princess Alice, but that, of course, was the Bond Street of charity shops, whereas this place was bargain basement. No arty window-displays or upmarket mannequins; just a heap of assorted tat jostling for space in the window and, inside, a faint smell of cat and damp.
Wrinklie Two was serving behind the counter – the image of her sister: both with tight grey perms, bulging calves and grotesque lace-up shoes, and both wearing poncy twinsets, one primrose, one pale blue. On previous occasions, she’d heard them both called ‘Mrs’, which meant they must have both had sex. She tried to picture them naked and in bed with Anthony, but immediately felt another surge of panic. He liked playing these weird games – games his wife disliked, he said. No wonder. They would make any woman feel a fool, if not downright gross. But she pretended to like them, and now he actually believed that she was into all that porn stuff. You had to pretend, in order to keep men happy – to keep them at all, come to that.
Yes, she’d take the top – he’d like it – and now she had settled the vital matter of what to wear tonight, she’d better try to find a lampshade for her room. It was bare bulbs at the moment – and bare boards underfoot. However, the onl
y lampshade on display was a monstrosity in purple, with a hideous matching fringe, and thus unlikely to improve her already grotty pad. Most of the stuff they sold here was stuck in a sort of time-warp – much like the sisters themselves – stacks of old LPs, hardback books by dead and dreary authors like Walter stodgy Scott, cameras that looked as if they’d come out of the ark, yellowing maps in broken frames, tarnished metal candlesticks, beaded satin evening bags.
Nothing she’d be seen dead with, in short, so she mooched up to the counter with the top, proffering a £5-note and pocketing the penny change. ‘Look after the pennies,’ her mother always said, ‘and the pounds will look after themselves.’ Patently untrue – like most of what her mother believed.
As she made her way to the door, she all but collided with Wrinklie One, who had emerged from the private storeroom with a large object in her hands: a pink jewellery-box, with a ballerina on top. Karen stared in disbelief. It looked absolutely identical to the one she’d been given by her father as a child, to celebrate her reaching double figures. Mesmerized, she scrutinized it more closely. Yes, the same pink leatherette, the same three drawers, painted with pink roses, the same slender little ballerina dressed in a real net tutu and silk top. ‘Oh!’ she breathed, rooted to the spot. All sorts of questions were swarming in her head: was it for sale? Did it play the ‘Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy’ when you wound it up? Did the dancer twirl around to the tune, as hers had done so tirelessly? But she couldn’t seem to speak. Her throat was blocked with pain and pleasure mixed.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ the woman said, clearing a space on the shelf.
Karen nodded dumbly, following in her wake.
‘And it’s brand new, you know. It’s not often we get things in such good condition. A lady brought it in yesterday – said it was given to her daughter as a present, but the daughter didn’t like it.’
The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Page 9